When She And I Were Young
by ceridwen-amyed
Summary: Pre-movie. An odd little ficlet I thought up while having a lie-in on a Saturday morning... Satine and her friend Jean join the Moulin Rouge


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Disclaimer: "Moulin Rouge" does not belong to me and I'm making no money from this at all. Characters from the film belong to Baz Luhrmann or whomever and those not in the film are mine. Pinch them and I'll be cross. Paris belongs to the French.

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Author's Note: Pre-movie. Satine and her friend Jean join the Moulin Rouge from the streets of Paris. This is a bit of an odd fic, but that's what I get for writing late at night :P

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When She and I Were Young

By

Christine aka Piglitgirl

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1891

Satine twisted lightly across the pavements, letting her body move with the music Jean played on his old battered accordion. Her bare feet scuffed the cobbles and beat out a counter rhythm to her partners playing. He was a wonderful player with an instinctive knowledge of rhythm. When she slowed he encouraged her on and when she spun to fast, he abandoned the accordion and caught her before she hit the ground.

"Really, Satine," he said lightly one day after catching her. "Underneath all that charm and poise, you're about as graceful as an elephant!"

She laughed and disentangled herself from his arms, bowing to the small crowd around them. "Thank you, thank you!" she said, smiling brilliantly and blowing kisses as Jean scuttled around, holding out his flat cap to catch the few meagre coins they threw. As the crowd dispersed, she picked up the heavy accordion and went over to Jean who was counting the coins.

"How much?" she asked, awkwardly rearranging the instrument in her arms. Jean shook his head.

"Not enough to buy a new dress," he replied eyeing the rags she wore. Threadbare was too kind a description for them; Jean suspected that the reason so many men now stopped to watch their little show was the hope that they might cop an eyeful of the young girl's quickly blossoming body. Dirty perverts, he thought scathingly.

"Oh, well," sighed Satine, plucking at the short skirt. "Perhaps next time."

"Perhaps if we saved a little from each performance, instead of splurging it all on the first thing we see-"

"Oh Jean," laughed Satine placing the accordion gently at his feet. "Where's the fun in that?" She took the cap from his hand and headed off down the street.

"Fun?" he called after her. "You call this fun? Sometimes I don't think you realise what our situation is…" He stopped, bending to pick up the accordion. Satine hurried back to him and helped him with it.

"Of course I do," she said briskly, "but what can we save from today's?" she held the coins out to him. "There's barely enough for us to eat today, let alone save for another day."

"We've been doing this for three years now," he replied. "We should have saved from the beginning…"

"But we were having too much fun," she finished wistfully.

"Fun?" he asked dully.

She waved an impatient hand. "Not _fun_, per se, but… Oh Jean, we're free!" She spun around, her hands gesturing to the building around them. "You can't deny that it's fun to run around the rooftops, like we used to."

"Yes, when we were ten Satine! You're nearly fourteen! We can't play all our lives… And I'd have a lot more fun if we had food and a roof over our heads!"

"You have no imagination," she said lightly. Jean sighed, frustrated. Sometimes, it was absolutely impossible to talk to Satine rationally. She had so many hopes and ideas that sometimes Jean wondered whether or not she would just fly away one day. He couldn't count the number of times he'd been woken up after another night in a shop doorway by Satine, her bright eyes gleaming and her lips saying the words, "Jean, I've had such an idea…"

"Imagination won't help us live," he said firmly.

"Oh, have it your way!" she snapped, losing all good humour, thrusting the coins and hat on the top of the accordion. She turned and stormed off down the street.

"Where are you going now?" shouted Jean to her back.

"Where else?" she tossed behind her shoulder.

Jean groaned. He called after her again but she was gone.

"Jean!" He turned and saw a thin boy rushing towards him. "Have another fight with your darling Satine?"

"She's not my darling Satine, Stan. She's completely impossible…"

Stan laughed. "Well, what do you expect? She wants to be a primadonna! Here let me help you…" He took the accordion of Jean and looked at the cap. "How much'd you make today?"

"Nowhere near enough," said Jean sadly. 

Stan shrugged awkwardly. "Never mind. We'll club together… Will the fair Satine be joining us?" he said mockingly.

"No," said Jean shaking his head as they hurried down the street towards the riverbank. "She's in Montmartre tonight…"

* * * *

Satine smiled and hugged herself, inhaling the heady mix of perfume and smoke that constantly saturated Montmartre. Bright lights and women wearing brilliant scraps of clothing rushed past her, laughing. She had heard people say that Montmartre was the place to be – something exciting was happening there. The Muses are strong there, they laughed and pointed at headlines in the newspapers and Satine wished that she knew how to read.

She laughed at a few street performers, one very exotic looking fellow breathing fire. She smiled, her eyes sparkling with delight. This was where she belonged. In the brightness of the lights, in the centre of whatever was happening in Montmartre. The Belle Epoqué, she'd heard people say. The excitement was almost tangible, in the carnival-esque designs of the performers, to sounds of people laughing. The streets were buzzing with people and Satine was swept up with them like flotsam, which suited her just fine. They were headed for the same place she was: The Moulin Rouge. The centre of Montmartre.

She could smell it before she could see it, the scent of opium that she had come to recognise after many inadvertent trips inside the great windmill of the Moulin Rouge, the sweat of the performers and something else she could not put her finger on. Slightly musty and sinister but exciting nonetheless.

At the doors, Satine ducked and hid in the crowd. It was late and it was easy enough to sneak inside the Moulin Rouge – she'd done so many times.

Satine was not sure what it was about the Moulin Rouge that so enthralled her. Perhaps it was the scent, or the way it looked. Perhaps it was the garden, littered with tables and men and women shrieking. Perhaps it was the main gallery and its dancers. The Diamond Dogs.

Yes, that was it, decided Satine. She pushed past the crowd and ran to the doors of the gallery, slipping inside quietly. She loved to dance and sing. She and Jean had peeked inside the theatres of Paris and been absorbed by the drama of it. And yet the performances were stifled and constricted. Satine wanted to dance as she did on the streets: wild and free, as untouchable and alluring as a … a diamond. The only place she knew where she would be able to perform like that was the Moulin Rouge. She had been to ask for a job there once before but a large man with greying hair and mean eyes had told her to get out. Scruffy, skinny, street children were not wanted anywhere. So Satine had taken to haunting the place, watching the Diamond Dogs work their art and weave their magic. She knew the other boys Jean sometimes spoke to teased him about her and would have teased her too, if not for Jean.

She smiled gently. Dear old Jean. As stuffy as pressed shirt, but he had always been there. She could barely remember how they had met but perhaps that didn't matter. They roamed the streets together, hand in hand. She'd never considered anything more to their relationship than that and she knew he hadn't either. He was like a big brother, always looking out for her, catching her when she fell. They shared everything: food, money, blankets, whatever. The one thing they did not share was this place. Jean was not enchanted by the Moulin Rouge or Montmartre: when she had raved to him about the Diamond Dogs he had snorted and said "Satine, you do know what they are, don't you?"

"Of course," she had replied, not having the faintest idea of what he was talking about. He'd guessed this and rolled his eyes.

"They're whores, Satine."

"Oh!" she had said, eyes wide with surprise. He had laughed and after a moment she was laughing with him. 

Now, she could not understand why she had not seen it: it was obvious, really. She peered out from behind a pillar at the dance floor, the Dogs showing their knickers and the men grabbing at them. The lights and seductiveness of the place must have dazzled her, she decided. There was really no her excuse for her naivety.

Satine stayed behind her pillar in a forgotten corner, watching the dancing hungrily. One dancer in particular held her attention. A tall, painfully thin woman with dark blonde hair. Her eyes were crystal blue and she was centre stage, singing and dancing with a queue of fervent looking men. There was something seductive in the way she moved that made the hairs on the back of Satine's neck stand up. She understood why the men looked so eager to be near her. The woman's very aura seemed to hint that _this_ was nothing to what she was capable of. She smiled alluringly but even from this distance, Satine could see the emptiness behind the look, the distance. It said _look but I will choose who will touch me._

The song finished and the dancers split up, going in different directions with various men. Satine saw the tall woman head towards a table of affluent looking men. One of them, rather short and pot-bellied looking excused himself and went to meet her, smirking and holding out his arm to her. She took it and they headed off, out of the dance hall, accompanied by catcalls from the man's friends.

Satine hesitated. No matter what these women did behind the scenes, in front of the scenes this was exactly the kind of life she wanted. And behind the scenes… Jean had always been dismissive and haughty of prostitutes but was it really all that bad? Could it really be as dirty and disgusting as she'd always heard? She couldn't imagine the tall woman doing anything to degrade herself…

The tall woman and the pot-bellied man had reached a door to the side of dance hall. Satine came to her decision. Ducking behind a group of men she scurried out of her hiding place and, dodging her way across the dance floor, she reached the door just before it banged shut. She slipped inside and blinked in astonishment. This was obviously backstage. Dancers rushed past her, barely noticing her presence. Clothes and props were scattered across the floor and on various shelves. It was deliciously chaotic. A man came out of a closed door, zipping up his trousers, looking ruffled and distinctly pleased with himself. He nodded at Satine and went out of the door she had just come in through. A moment later, a woman came out of the room he had just exited from, wearing a skirt but no corset or top covering of any kind. Satine blinked as the woman looked up and down the busy corridor and screeched "Marie! Monsieur Vanderbilt stole my corset!" She turned towards Satine and sneered. "What are you looking at?

"Nothing," said Satine quickly.

"Piss off," spat the woman and Satine blinked and then shook herself, remembering why she had come back here. She could still just make out the tall woman's head above the thronging corridor and she made her way along the corridor towards them.

It seemed as though the corridors were never ending. Satine's head was spinning, her eyes flashing left to right, eager for some new sight and yet still watching her targets carefully. She saw Diamond Dogs leading men into rooms, some closing the door, others leaving it open in their haste. The noises emitting from these rooms made Satine's ears burn.

Finally the tall woman and man turned into a room, shutting the door carefully behind them. Satine hesitated at the door, unsure as how to proceed. If she opened the door immediately, the couple would surely hear her and shoo her away. They would certainly be very angry with her, so that option was unattractive. But so was the idea of hanging around outside the closed door. She would not be able to tell what was going on and besides, someone was sure to see her and throw her out… She decided to wait a little while, until she heard some sign that the couple were engaged in whatever they were doing and then she would open the door a crack, see what was going on and then hurry back to Jean and tell him what she saw. 

She looked up and down the corridor to check that no one was there. It was deserted. She pressed her ear to the door and listened. There were some muffled voices and then a silence. Then the squeak of the bed. Slowly, the squeaking gained some kind of rhythm and taking a deep breath, Satine prised the door open slowly. She peeked in.

Whatever she had expected, it was not this. The tall woman lay sprawled on her back on the bed, her corset was hanging open and face turned towards the ceiling. The blankness in her eyes was more pronounced then ever, as the man (who seemed only to have taken off his shoes) knelt over her, kissing her chest, his hands spread over the woman's neck. Satine blinked. She'd heard many of Jean's friend's laugh about whores and their work but it had never been described like _this_. This was… cold, unfeeling. Something that neither party seemed entirely interested in.

Suddenly, the woman turned her head and looked straight at Satine. Satine jumped slightly but did not take her eyes off the woman's. The emptiness there was frightening. It reminded Satine of the dead cat she and Jean had once found. It would have seemed asleep, if it weren't for the eyes, blank and extinguished. It had been frightening enough in a dead cat but in a living woman…

The woman's eyes narrowed and she mouthed "go away" at Satine. Satine didn't move. The woman seemed about to speak again, when she gasped: the man had tightened his hands around her neck. The woman choked and clutched at his hands, trying the pry them off her. The man tightened his grip, leaning over her and leering. Satine was frozen to her position, staring in terror at the scene.

"You bitch," he growled, "you whore…"

The woman turned her head towards the door and Satine noticed with a terrible irony that her dead eyes were now alive with fear. Facing death, she was alive.

"Help me," she mouthed and Satine's frozen limbs sprung into action. She turned and fled, howling at the top of her voice.

"What's this?" shouted an older woman, rushing out of a door. She turned and saw Satine, eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?" Other heads were now poking out of doorways.

"Please," cried Satine, pointing towards the room she had been peeping into, "that man is murdering that lady!"

The woman followed Satine's trembling finger and frowned. "That's Jolie and the Count's room. He always puts his hands around the girl's throats-"

"Marie? What's going on?" called a male voice and the mean looking man who had turned Satine away, appeared around the corner, followed by a group of tired looking Diamond Dogs. His eyes narrowed when he saw Satine. "What're _you_ doing here?"

"You have to help her!" Satine gasped rushing towards him. He stepped quickly backwards, as though her touch would contaminate him.

"It's about Jolie and the Count…" said the older woman, glaring at Satine. The other people in the corridor groaned and rolled their eyes and started heading back to their rooms.

"No!" protested Satine, "she asked me to get help! She mouthed 'help me'!"

The mean man paused. "Are you sure?" he asked, peering at her closely.

"Yes!" shrieked Satine. The man and woman exchanged a look and then headed towards the room, looking carefully inside. There was a silence and Satine bit her lip.

"Oh my god!" shrieked the older woman, bursting inside the room. The man followed her shouting "get some help!" at the other dancers. Satine heard cries of surprise and a gasping noise that could only be the tall woman emit from the room and she rushed into the room. The mean man had hauled the Count off the bed and had pinned his arms behind his back. The older lady was helping Jolie to sit up, supporting her as Jolie rubbed her neck. She looked up and saw Satine loitering near the door.

"You," she rasped, her voice husky and raw. She pointed at Satine and motioned for her to come closer. Satine sidled into the room suddenly very nervous, not at least because the older woman was staring at her now, her eyes travelling from Satine's face, to her breasts, hips and ankles, before snapping back to her face. Satine tried her best to ignore this and wished heartily that her clothes were more modest than this tiny dress.

Jolie took Satine's arm, non too-gently and kissed Satine's forehead. Satine could feel the sticky texture of her lips and she shivered: her lips were cold. It was like the kiss of death. Jolie smiled at her.

"You saved me," she said smoothly, "What's your name, cherie?"

"Satine," she responded quietly, feeling completely overwhelmed by this woman. She was half-naked, sitting on a very dingy bed, ugly bruise marks blooming like flowers around her neck, her would-be murderer still in the room and yet, Satine had never seen anyone so regal and calm before.

"Satine," murmured Jolie and she exchanged a look with Marie. There was a sudden stampeding noise and the room was flooded with people. Several men helped the mean man drag the dazed Count out of the room and several girls started speaking at once, very rapidly to see if Jolie was all right. A large man with a bright red moustache and sticking-up hair flounced into the room, surveyed the scene before him and cried, "My little kitten, what happened?". The dancer in question held her hands up and rose gracefully.

"I'm fine, mon ami, just fine." She smiled and put a white hand on Satine's shoulder. "Thanks to young Satine here."

The man looked at Satine with the same intense gaze as the older woman had. Satine quickly rearranged her face into what she hoped was a nonchalant expression, as though she often stumbled in on men strangling half-naked women.

"How did she get back here?" asked one of the dancers disdainfully, but the man with red hair interrupted.

"Never mind that!" he practically shouted and he smiled at Satine. "Come with me, poppet," he said kindly. He paused and looked up at Jolie, his expression softening. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, brushing his concern off. "Of course. The Count just got a little over-zealous, that's all." She smiled. "I doubt he'll be coming back again though." There were murmurs of ascent amongst the small crowd packed into the room. Satine thought she heard someone murmur, "not when his wife finds out about _this_".

The man nodded and turned walking out of the room so quickly that Satine had to virtually run to keep up with him. They walked in silence for a moment, leaving the chaos behind them. She peeked up at the man; he seemed to be deep in thought and she was loath to interrupt him. But she had so many questions...

"Please monsieur," she began quietly. The man blinked and came out of his reverie.

"Call me Harold, dear. Harold Zidler."

"Monsieur Zidler," she began again, deciding that she didn't want to be on too familiar terms with him, at least not just yet. "Why was that man - the Count - doing that to Jolie?"

"Ah," said Harold, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "You see, Satine, we allow all sorts to livve out their… pleasures at the Moulin Rouge. The Count-" He hesitated. "Well," he laughed, "maybe you're too young to understand it just yet."

"I'm nearly fourteen!" said Satine indignantly, frowning as Harold laughed. Satine was silent for a few moments, then she asked the question that was really on her mind.

"Will the Count be thrown into prison?"

Harold seemed uncomfortable at this question. "Ah, no, I don't think so. He's a very powerful man – knows the right people, that sort of thing. Besides," he added a little sadly, "I doubt that Jolie will be pressing any charges."

"Why not?" asked Satine in shock. "If anyone tried to do that to me, I'd-"

"What were you doing back there anyway?" He interrupted her hastily, as though her questions made him uneasy.

"Oh, I, um," began Satine, trying desperately to think up some legitimate excuse, but finding none, she confessed it all, how she had followed Jolie up to see… well, to see _something_.

"I see," said Harold. "Tell me Satine, have you been to the Moulin Rouge before?"

"Oh yes, monsieur," said Satine eagerly, "I love it here! The colours, the lights, the music… I would love to dance here one day." She stopped abruptly, not meaning to have exposed _that_ little idea quite so quickly. Harold however, let out a great bark of laughter and stopped outside a thick looking door. He opened it and motioned Satine inside. The room was large and cluttered with chairs, broken tables, instruments and goodness knows what else. Harold marched towards the one vaguely clean chair and sat down in it. He smiled at Satine.

"Go on then!" he laughed. "Show me your dancing!"

"What?" asked Satine in alarm.

"Ah," said Harold, leaping back to his feet and crossing to the room's one window. He opened it and the faint sound of the Moulin Rouge's band drifted in through the night air. Satine blinked at him. Harold sensed her discomfort and smiled gently.

"Come on, crumpet. This is your audition."

Satine jumped. "My-my audition?"

Harold nodded. "You want to dance at the Moulin Rouge? I think it can be arranged. If you're as good a mover as you are a looker, then you have nothing to worry about!"

Satine hesitated but then the idea that she could actually be dancing here, like Jolie and all the others was intoxicating. The image of Jolie, lying choked on the bed sprang before Satine's eyes and she shuddered inwardly. No matter how good a dancer Jolie was, she was still a whore.

Again, Harold seemed to guess the reason for her discomfort because he leant forward and said in a low voice, "You don't have to be anything you don't want to be here Satine. You want to dance, then you dance. No more, no less."

Satine looked uncertainly at him but the lure of the music was too much for her. She nodded and shut her eyes, listening to the music. Slowly, her feet began to tap out the rhythm and her hands rose above her head. She threw her head back and forgot that Harold was there. She danced across the room, avoiding bits of furniture and the mess on the floor lightly. The rhythm coiled through her and she held it within her, knowing intuitively when to release it. Before she quite knew what she was doing, she was singing, her voice low, and to her, strange sounding. It sounded almost as husky as Jolie's.

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When it feels like the world is on your shoulders

And all of the madness has got you going crazy

It's time to get out step into the street

Where all of the action is right there at your feet

Well, I know of a place where we can dance the whole night away

And it's called the Moulin Rouge

Just come with me and we can shake your blues right away

You'll be doing fine once the music starts

Oh, can you feel the rhythm of the night?

Satine twisted across the floor, her feet perfectly in time with the music. She'd never felt like this before: it was like flying. Better than flying. There was no fear that she would fall.

When the music stopped it seemed abrupt and all too soon to Satine. She stopped, flushed and turned slowly to face Harold. His mouth was open and his eyes sparkling.

"What?" she asked nervously, certain that she had done something wrong. Harold shook himself and then leant forwards, motioning her closer. He grinned at her.

"My darling Satine," he whispered. "I am going to make you into the greatest star the underworld has ever seen."

* * * * * * *

Jean hung around the entrance to the Moulin Rouge the doormen leering at him disdainfully, but Jean ignored them. Satine was somewhere inside. He knew that much, but actually finding her was a completely different matter. Stan had told him that there might be some work going in a café near one of Paris' main theatres. Although the idea of café work might be boring to Satine, they needed the money. Besides, if the café was so close to a theatre, he was certain that Satine could be persuaded. He'd been so excited by the thought of a proper job, earning proper money, not just tiny pieces of copper, that he'd rushed straight to Montmartre in search of his partner. Getting inside the nightclub Satine loved, however, was a bit of a problem. Most of the Moulin Rouge's patrons were already inside – the crowds now heading inside were in twos or threes, no good for sneaking an entrance in with.

Jean was close to giving up and going back to Stan and the others, when a large group of rowdy aristocrats lurched out the door, apparently undecided as to where they should stay or go. As the doormen hastened to sort them out, Jean slipped through the door and into the garden.

He glanced around him with interest: the Moulin Rouge was a living legend and although he felt none of the glamour Satine enjoyed about the place, it was interesting to see it for real. He peered into the dance hall but could not make Satine out in the quickly dispersing crowds. He frowned and decided to walk around the building's perimeter: perhaps she was loitering outside a dancer's dressing room.

He hurried around the side and back of the structure. Windows had been flung open to let the warm night air in, and Jean could hear the sounds of people laughing, talking and generally having a good time. There were a few noises that he couldn't quite put his finger on, nor did he want to. Quite suddenly, a very different sound cut through the noise: a soft voice that he knew well. He smiled and hurried towards the sound: a window on the second floor was open and through it floated Satine's voice, humming to herself.

"Satine!" he hissed. There was no reply. "Satine!" he called again, a little more loudly and he picked up a handful of stones from the ground and threw them at the window. Satine's voice stopped and a moment later her fiery red head poked out the window. She let out a delighted shriek when she saw Jean.

"Oh Jean, you'll never guess what's happened!"

"Probably not," he agreed. "Get down here, I've got wonderful news!"

"I've got a job!"

"I've got us a job!" cried Jean at the same time. He frowned up at her. "A job? Where?"

Satine giggled and clapped her hands together. "Oh, it's too wonderful! I'll come down!"

"But-" began Jean but her head disappeared back inside the room. A minute or so later, she burst out of a side door and ran to him, embracing him hard.

"Satine," gasped Jean, prising her off him, "what happened?"

Quickly, in a very breathy voice, she explained what had happened with Jolie and the Count, and her audition and Harold's promise to make her into a star.

" – and I told him about you, Jean, and he thinks you can work here too! Of course, we'll probably be doing menial jobs to begin with, setting chairs out, sweeping, that sort of thing but we can work our way up," She stopped and beamed at him. Jean stared back, completely flummoxed.

"Stan got us jobs in a café, near – "

"Oh, Jean, we can work at the Moulin Rouge! Who wants to sit in a silly old café?"

"Satine," said Jean firmly, taking hold of her arms and giving her a gentle shake. "Have you gone mad? I told you what these women do…"

"And I told her she doesn't have to do any of that if she doesn't want to," came a voice from the door. Jean jumped and peered through the murk at the man in the red suit. He strode out of the shadows and smiled down at them both. "Is this Jean?" he asked Satine and she nodded happily. The man nodded and surveyed Jean critically. "Can you dance?"

Jean drew himself up and started to reply but Satine cut him off. "He can play the accordion and sing and I'm certain he can dance, he's got wonderful rhythm-"

"Satine!" protested Jean but the man was already laughing.

"There's no need to worry, young man. You shall be paid very well here at the Moulin Rouge."

"We don't have to be anything we don't want to be," Satine whispered, clutching his arm in excitement. "Oh, please, say you'll stay Jean!" she burst out after a moments pause. "It wouldn't be the same without you!"

"But the café – " began Jean but the man now cut him off.

"We will pay you, dress you and give you a roof over your heads. You can't ask the same of a café, no matter how upper-class." He said this last part with a slight sneer, but his good humour quickly returned.

"Come on Jean," said Satine, smiling encouragingly. "We'll live better here – finally off the streets." Jean smiled wistfully at this and was about to agree when the man dropped the bombshell.

"We'll change your name of course."

"Change my name?" asked Jean. "What on earth for?"

The man gestured to the building behind them. "The Moulin Rouge is an exotic haven for everyone, every class, every preference, every colour. You'll need a name befitting of… yourself." The last part was said with a significant glance in Jean's direction and Jean felt his cheeks burn, and suddenly felt very self-conscious of his colouring. The man gazed at him thoughtfully.

"We'll call you…" He clicked his fingers. "Chocolat!"

"Chocolat?" echoed Jean in surprise. The man nodded encouragingly and Jean frowned. "Doesn't Satine have to change her name?"

The man put a chubby hand on Satine's thin shoulders and smiled. "I think Satine is a pretty enough name, don't you?"

Jean felt completely lost. He couldn't decide whether or not he liked this man or whether the job was a good one or not. Satine gazed at him pleadingly and he knew that this was the only break she would ever get. He doubted whether anywhere else would take a scruffy little street urchin like her and it was even harder for him to find work. Barely a day went by without someone shouting, "get back to where you came from!" or even worse, ignoring him, as though he was a piece of litter, to be trodden on. At least here they would have a chance to get some money and security. And there was no law to say they had to stay – if things got bad they could always run away together. He came to a decision.

"I'm not doing anything like that," he said, pointing towards a group of men and women near the walls of the Moulin Rouge, apparently shedding clothing as quickly as their drunken fingers would allow. The man blinked and seemed a little surprised at their antics.

"Er - yes. Of course," he said, shooing Satine and Jean into the building. "Be whatever you want to be," he said, looking over his shoulder and then he muttered something under his breath about "damn drunken idiots". He turned back to Satine and Jean. "I'm so glad you've chosen to stay with us." He smiled at them broadly. " Let me go and find you some accommodation… You won't mind sharing if you have to?"

"Of course not," said Satine, taking Jean's hand and squeezing it. As the man bustled off, Satine turned to Jean and gave him an impulsive hug.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Think nothing of it," he replied. "But I only want to stay here a few months, then I'm moving on…"

* * * * * * *

**__**

1900

"But I only want to stay here a few months, then I'm moving on…"

Famous last words. A few months turned into six months and then a year and then two years and then I gave up counting. There was no point pretending any longer: I was staying. Not just because of Satine. We grew apart almost immediately at the Moulin Rouge. I can't quite work out why. I suppose we had always been friends because we were the only ones each other really had, but now there were others. Harold, Marie, Diamond Dogs, other little street rats that had been whipped off the street, drawn to the bright lights of the windmill's sail.

No, I stayed because I enjoyed it – who wouldn't? I liked the Belle Epoqué, the feeling dancing and singing gave me. I don't play the accordion so much anymore, but I only really did that to get us some money. I like the Bohemian Revolution. Anything, anyone goes. Anyone can belong.

I should feel sad that we grew apart but I don't. She rose, from lowly cleaner, to can-can dancer, to whore and then, the glorious Sparkling Diamond. I stayed as a dancer, not having any ambition to become an actor. I'd only entered the Underworld because I was desperate to get off the streets and found it so intoxicating that I never left. I stayed with the other performers, the Dogs and eventually, bohemians. Satine mingled but she was different to the rest of us. I still defended her to the likes of Nini, but I don't know whether we were friends or not.

I didn't know that she'd become a whore until it was too late. She came bursting into my dressing room after her first time, crying, saying that it had hurt. She called me Jean and it had been such a long time since people had called me that, that I started to weep with her, realising how much had changed in such a short space of time. After a while, I realised that she was bleeding and I had to run to find a first aid kit. I couldn't find one and in the end, Araby helped me carry Satine from my room, to the doctor, a bloody towel between her pale legs. 

I've no idea why she decided to do all that, especially after seeing the strange fetish of the Count and what had happened to Jolie. She never said, but I think she realised that she was trapped at the Moulin and the only way out was to sleep with the right person. It's a depressing situation, which I have, thank god, mostly kept out of.

The next time she came into my room was when Zidler had secured the Duke as a possible investor. We were all excited about the prospect of becoming a legitimate theatre, but none more so than Satine. This was her dream, the fruits of her labour for almost ten years. She rushed into my room and embraced me as she had done years before and whispered "this is it, Jean!" and I said, "I know Satine. You're free!". That was the last time I properly spoke to her.

I was glad that she met Christian. She was happy. She laughed more. And she made him happy, which is the best you can wish any two people I suppose. Although, I do think that he was a little too emotional and extreme for his own good really. That's why I went to the Gothic Tower that fateful night. I'd seen Christian leave and I knew that he might do something that would ruin them. Somehow, I missed him in the gloom of the garden and I panicked, rushing up to the top floor. I saw the Duke and Satine and all the protectiveness I'd ever felt towards her rushed through me. I don't quite know whether I hit him or kicked him or whatever but the effect was the same. 

I'll never forget Satine's face. She reminded me of the scared seventeen-year-old girl who'd nearly bled to death in my dressing room after losing her virginity to a man who paid for the pleasure of it.

After that, throughout the whole performance of Spectacular Spectacular, I couldn't see her as the Sparkling Diamond. She was Satine, the girl who ran around rooftops with me and stole milk from the houses of rich people and poked at dead cats in the street to make quite sure they were dead. The girl I used to swim in the Seine with after a long, hot summer's day, shouting and shrieking at each other. The girl who persuaded me that Paris was a dead-end for us and then, when we left the metropolis far behind us, we became afraid of the trees and the birds and the dark night and ran back, sheltering, basking in the light of the city.

When she died that night, I knew I wouldn't remember her as the dancer, the singer, the whore, or the actress.

I remember her, a skinny thirteen-year-old girl, clutching at my hand, laughing with me and dancing on the streets.

Once, she and I were children, before this happened.

* * * * * * *

The song Satine sings for her audition is _Rhythm of the Night_ by Valeria

The last line is borrowed from _The Rose and The Beast: Fairy Tales Retold_ by the wonderful Francesca Lia Block. Read it :)

'Jolie', for those of you who care, means 'pretty' in French. So there's a piece of useless trivia for you ;)

I truly apologise for the weirdness of this fic. I wrote half of it when I was about to go out and then the other when I got home, so I'm a little… wobbly. :P


End file.
